26 February 2007

{ 04 } .. . despot

bella,/no te caben los ojos en la cara,/no te caben los ojos en la tierra

Karaoke night in the lounge at the Comfort Inn, the singer looks more unsteady than the way I feel. She’s been egged on by three other women sitting at a table upfront. They all look to be about the same age, late 30s or so, wearing variations of office casual. Occasionally, I hear a staccato of throaty laughter but otherwise have paid little attention to them. The woman, standing on the tiny, low stage sings with a startling lack of inhibition that transcends the mostly empty room. She is mesmerizing, not because of her voice, which is neither particularly artful nor tuneful, but because the conviction of her singing reaches beyond any practised technique. She isn’t holding back. Each note, each syllable becomes the whole truth, a testimony to the power of such a seemingly trivial song as ‘Don’t Be Cruel’.

I’m swept away by the rhetoric, the history and the poetry of her literal and liberating rendition – boiling the essence of the song down to its naked pleading, its joy of being enslaved by love, the obsessive need for love’s requital. At first, she starts by reading the lyrics off the tv monitor, following the crimson sweep through the bright white letters. But soon her eyes are half-closed as if she’s reading the words from somewhere else. ‘You know I can be found,’ she sounds a little tentative. ‘Sitting home all alone,’ now there’s joy, as if being alone is a sexy anticipation of not being alone. I hear Elvis Presley in her styling, but because the canned music has a slightly faster beat than his version, this woman sings his song with more urgency, even rushing a little ahead of the beat. And I believe utterly that she understands the overwhelming cruelty of misplaced affection, but cannot resist its comforting strictures. ‘Why should we be apart/I really love you, baby, cross my heart,’ I hear the sincerity of the words and something more – she is hinting at a desire behind the pledge, that, sure, she will love him forever for now, because, well, sometimes a girl has needs. ‘Let’s walk to the preacher,’ – I don’t know what kind of preacher would be within walking distance of a motel. ‘You’re the only one I’m thinking of,’ she finishes the song in an almost matter-of-fact way, no theatrical flourish, just stating the obvious. And the whole room, such as it is, detonates into a vigorous applause.

Lovely one,/your eyes are too big for your face,/your eyes are too big for the earth.
.. . { pablo neruda. bella }

spiral scratch
absolutely cuckoo .. . { the magnetic fields, 69 love songs }
no so piĆ¹ cosa son .. . { cecilia bartoli, le nozze di figaro }
someday .. . { bobby ‘blue’ bland, i pity the fool }



25 February 2007

{ 03 } .. . virago

she reads the leaves and she leads the life

Come with me, and be my love,/And we will some new pleasures prove
. .. . { john donne, the bait }

Well, we tread lightly on some phantom shells, waving our arms molasses slow. As if we were swayed by some idle wind, while fishers fish and emperors bow. The flames do not subside at all with ease, fueled by the trash strewn to and fro. And what burns shall burn, as young children learn, with liars’ pants and idiots’ glow.

Now that’s a nice fire to warm an arson’s arse. Let’s throw another martyr on the pyre, another Joan on the throne. And throw more dirt on this shallow grave.


spiral scratch
the sad burlesque .. . { elvis costello and the brodsky quartet, the juliet letters }
hungover again .. . { supersuckers, must’ve been high }
a certain romance .. . { arctic monkeys, whatever people say i am, that’s what i’m not }



21 February 2007

{ 02 } .. . magdalena

jumped my head and served me jasmine tea

Feel the blood stir with the waning moon, let the rising tide wake the dormant mountain. I’m chasing echoes from a stack of songs. And the sand spills from my pocket like so much wasted hours. How come the earth spins steady make me dizzy? How come the stars shine sparkly inside my eyes?

The faded jaded junkie jumps to attention. The country chorus slows the lingering seconds even more. We’re suspended, she and I, insects in some amber liquid, talking nothing, squandering the precious moment. If she walks in beauty, then I in fright, through clouded grime and charry heights, and all that burns with smoke and light, comes to ashes and to shite.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
.. . { james joyce, the dead }

unggai ayhai atfai oichai!


spiral scratch
better git it in your soul .. . { charles mingus, mingus ah um }
bingo .. . { mia, arular }
sensoria .. . { cabaret voltaire, micro-phonies }



14 February 2007

{ 01 } .. . charlatan

all you need is cash, or decent credit

Stringing words together with little rhyme and less reason, just flowing with the slipstream, getting tossed about by the hidden nuggets underneath the swirling currents, now wouldn’t we have a time? In the humble days of February, balanced between start and end, at the heart of the month, all I see is a sea of red, an ocean of calamine lotion, a salve for some amorous itch.

How does that tidal wave grow? Mercy at ruby fingertips, patience with a virtuous twist, a vice on twitchy impulse, the syncopated rhythm driving me steadily onwards, eyes blinded by the rushing liquid, ears blunted with the pressing water. All I can rely on is the probing touch of my splayed out limbs.

I’m starfish somersaulting, a spinning blob of barely held together protein, sailing through this siren studded archipelago, each one trilling their alluring songs, and I can’t help but listen even as I speed towards a hard landing on one of those rocky shores.

And when the sea recedes, when the strong winds dry me leather, this heartland troubadour will lullaby my stagnant thoughts, with words like fortune telling bones tossed carelessly on the sand. Now, how does that feel?



spiral scratch
that’s all it took .. . { gram parsons, gp }
how long has this been going on? .. . { ella fitzgerald, ella sings gershwin }
venus .. . { television, marquee moon }




11 February 2007

{ 00 } .. . simpleton

Oh, what wonders do the world provide for idle hands led by feeble mind.

Beginnings are buggers. So I’m gonna cheat. But before I plunk you into the middle of the raging torrents of my fevered diatribe (well, actually, it’d be more like the slack-jawed droolings of my flaccid gibes), here’s a little illustration of what you are in for.

I was going to call this site, Secretariat, you know, all sleek and powerful, a real thoroughbred of measured thoughts. But then, I would be constantly blogging a dead horse.

Really, there will be nothing of note, no truths unveiled, no secrets revealed, just the mad mutterings of a nutter with too much time and technology at his disposal.

And I promise that will be the last time I refer to myself in the third person.

You have been warned.



spiral scratch
sexy mf .. . { prince, sex symbol }
ape self prevails in me still .. . { quasi, featuring ‘birds’ }
i wanna be sedated .. . { the ramones, road to ruin }